


Part of the Pack

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miller sort of walks into his engagement accidentally when one night Monty says very quietly, “Would you ever, maybe, want to get married?”</p><p>Miller turns to him with a single eyebrow raised. “I thought we already were,” he admits. In fact, he’s been considering Monty his husband for an embarrassingly long time, and had started possibly before it was reasonable to do so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part of the Pack

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same universe as SKY-U, but it's not necessary to read that first. David and Mary are Miller's parents, and they're divorced and bitter about it. 
> 
> If you haven't heard Bootstrap's cover of Wanna Dance With Somebody, you're missing out and should really reevaluate your life.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L4Ed2_bfnFo

Miller sort of walks into his engagement accidentally when one night, while lying in bed with their respective readings—Miller with some weapons magazine borrowed from Bellamy, and Monty with a historical romance also borrowed from Bellamy—Monty says very quietly, “Would you ever, maybe, want to get married?”

Miller turns to him with a single eyebrow raised. “I thought we already were,” he admits. In fact, he’s been considering Monty his husband for an embarrassingly long time, and had started possibly before it was reasonable to do so.

Monty is blushing, which isn’t altogether surprising, and Miller calmly waits for his pseudo-husband to explain. “I get it, with David and Mary; the whole marriage thing is just a title for them. And you and me, I know we’re just as committed, whether or not we’ve got some silly paperwork. But…” and here he trails off, and Miller instantly knows that he is going to give this man all the paperwork he could ever quietly hope for.

“So let’s get married,” Miller shrugs, turning back to his magazine. Monty shrugs back, but Miller can feel him beaming for the rest of the night, and even when he goes down on him, the curve of his smile pressed to Miller’s thighs.

Clarke becomes involved shortly after, partly because Clarke _always_ seems to get involved in everything these days, and partly because having an actual wedding seems to include a lot of planning, which Miller is definitely not cut out for. Monty, despite the whole thing being his idea in the first place, turns out to be less than helpful when his only input seems to be, _whatever makes you happy_. Which is sweet, but. Miller really just wants him to pick a color scheme.

They’re sitting at the counter in the bakery, Miller and Monty and Bellamy each on a bar stool, while Penelope tugs at her father’s curls with her chubby baby fingers. Clarke is flitting back and forth between their little corner, and the customers coming in and out. Monty is eating a boysenberry scone, daintily and with a fork, and Miller is nursing a cup of black coffee. Bellamy had ordered an Earl Grey tea, but given up on it after the third time Penelope knocked it in his hand. The mug sits a few inches away, growing cold.

“Have you decided which venue? What about a date— _oh_ , a spring wedding would be _so lovely_ , and anyway what’s the point in waiting? You could book a Justice within the next few days—I _am_ doing the cake, yes? Should it be buttercream or chocolate ganache? Would you want a topper, or maybe some sort of script in icing, like _Miller and Monty forever_ , or something. Is that too Junior High? Have you picked your suits out? Who are the best men?”

She asks a million other questions in between the rest, until finally Miller says “Clarke, would you like to plan the wedding?”

Clarke sinks down to her elbows against the counter with a heavy sigh of relief. She catches Miller’s eye bashfully. “Oh, thank God—I thought you’d _never_ ask!”

From there, it becomes relatively easy. For Miller. For Clarke’s part, she was probably regretting ever wanting anything to do with the wedding in the first place. Monty is as delightfully vague as ever, and Miller honestly just can’t bring himself to care much about the shape of the curtains, or white candles versus baby blue. He wants a venue large enough to host the whole group, a cake with cream cheese filling, and whatever will make Monty happy.

“Okay but what about your suits?” Clarke asks, for probably the seventh time—it’s hard to keep track, and Monty is currently winning a discrete staring contest with Jasper.

“Whatever Lexa picks,” Miller waves a hand nonchalantly. He knows his strengths, and fashion is not one of them.

“Okay, but what about color? Cut? Have you phoned a tailor yet?”

Jasper blinks and Monty grins smugly, even as his eyes burn. Beside him, Miller looks doubtful. Monty’s not sure he even heard the question.

Jasper turns to Clarke and sighs. “Do you think Monroe could knit them a matching set?” He meant it as a joke, but he must have reached his quota for those already, because Clarke only scowls.

“I wouldn’t _mind_ wearing white,” Monty nearly whispers. Clarke and Miller turn to him in surprise—it’s the closest thing to an actual request that he’s made.

“Okay,” Clarke nods, reaching for the notepad she keeps tucked away for wedding-planning related emergencies. “We can do that.” She’s smiling again, and scribbling away a mile a minute.

“I’m not wearing white,” Miller declares. “It washes me out, apparently.” He’s really only repeating what Lexa told him the day before, but he likes that it makes him sound like he knows what he’s talking about.

“What color would you like to wear?” asks Clarke, pen poised, face genuine. Miller takes a moment to think it over.

“Orange,” he decides. Clarke stares at him.

“Orange,” she deadpans.

“Fluorescent,” Miller nods. Jasper snickers from across the room. Clarke glowers at the both of them.

“Do you think I could carry a bouquet?” Monty wonders, chewing at his lip. That’s his favorite nervous habit, and one of Miller’s favorite habits is taking that particular lip in his own teeth to make him stop.

“You can definitely carry a bouquet,” Miller answers. “You can use your own flowers.” Clarke is happily sketching a few crude daisies into her notes.

“It’s more of a heteronormative custom though,” Monty argues—against himself, which he does often, though Miller never really gets why. “And it’s usually done by a bride.”

“Who cares?” Miller argues back. “It’s your wedding. You can carry a bouquet. You can wear a damn veil if you want to. We can wear matching veils. Knitted by Lexa.”

“We can all wear veils,” Jasper adds. “But yours will be the only white ones. You know, solidarity and all that.”

“Venues,” Clarke presses on, and Miller thinks—not for the first time—that she might have made a good soldier.

“I’m not paying to get married,” Miller warns with narrowed eyes. “We can do it at home, or my mom’s yard or something.”

“I wouldn’t mind an outside wedding,” Monty practically sighs with a small smile. Miller and Clarke exchange a glance before she scribbles some more in her notebook.

“Outside wedding,” she nods, “Good. Great. Progress, this is progress.” She sounds tired, and Miller feels a small pang of guilt.

“How about the dog park?” Jasper suggests amiably. “It’s outside. Plus, you could train a German Shepherd to be the ring bearer.”

“How much of our wedding party should be dogs?” Monty wonders. Clarke is full-on glaring now, and he isn’t sure he’s ever seen her make that expression at him. It is simultaneously terrifying and hilarious.

“Ideally all of it,” Jasper decides. “I’d be cool with giving up my spot to a Malamute.”

“You’re joking,” Clarke says, more of a command than an observation. Monty just shakes his head at his fiancé, goofy smile still in place. Miller thinks he wears it well, tells him as much, and kisses the corner where his mouth turns up while Jasper makes a face in the background.

Clarke flaps the pages of her notebook at them, but she doesn’t look so angry anymore, so Miller counts it a victory.

 

That night while lying in bed, Miller decides he should ask if Monty has any _actual_ wedding ideas besides _maybe wearing white_ , and _maybe outside_. Knowing his fiancé has the very adorable but sort of infuriating habit of getting embarrassed when discussing himself, Miller knows he has to approach the topic subtlety.

“So,” Miller drawls, not looking up from his magazine—a wedding one this time, that Clarke made him swear to flip through, under pain of death. Though, knowing Clarke, she’d probably just bake angrily, and then not let him eat any. “Do you have any _actual_ wedding ideas?”

Subtlety isn’t Miller’s strength, either.

Monty immediately flushes, like Miller knew he would, and looks away bashfully. Miller wants equally to roll his eyes, and wrench off his clothes to see how far the down the blush spreads. “I don’t know,” he starts. Monty both cares deeply about their wedding, and wants to pretend that he doesn’t. It’s a little maddening, but mostly it’s cute.

“I might like to get married in the park,” he says wistfully. Miller waits for him to continue. “I was also thinking that, maybe, Mary could officiate? I mean, she’s an Official, so he has the ability, and she could learn the script. And anyway, it doesn’t really matter as long as we get the certificate down at the court, so…” he trails off, obviously waiting for Miller’s opinion, and Miller knows that if he disagrees Monty will shrug and let it go, and Clarke will phone around for officiates in the morning.

“I’m not really sure how I feel about my mom being the one to marry us,” Miller admits, and Monty’s disappointment is gone so quickly he almost doesn’t notice. “But I’ll ask her in the morning,” he shrugs. “She’ll probably gripe a lot, and then argue with my dad, but I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

“You don’t have to,” Monty starts.

“I know,” Miller answers. “Any other friends or family you want me to put in positions of power? I draw the line at Lexa—she’d never shut up about it.”

Monty smiles. “She’s happy enough about getting to dress us. She keeps saying she wants to do something to my hair, but I’m still not clear on what.” He runs a hand through the strands thoughtfully. “I’m going to ask Jasper to be my best man,” he admits. “Tomorrow. Murphy too. Well, maybe we’ll share Murphy.”

Miller raises a brow. “ _Two_ best men? Don’t you think that’s a little greedy?”

Monty shrugs and grins cheekily. “Who cares? It’s my wedding.”

Miller grins back and kisses him. “Yeah,” he says into his mouth.

 

Miller meets Bellamy for lunch the next day in his office at the university. Penelopeis there, mouthing on her father’s hole-punch in the corner. Miller hopes he sterilized it first.

Bellamy glances up from his paperwork, peering at Miller from over his glasses. He seems to take a moment to remember who Miller is, and why he might be standing in his office, before sitting up and waving him over. Miller gives Penelopea soft smile, and she offers a lopsided grin. He pulls up a chair across from Bellamy’s desk.

“I’m so sorry,” Bellamy begins, tiredly rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. “The last few days have been hectic—did we have plans?”

Miller shakes his head, quick to reassure him. “No. I just had a few things to ask about the wedding.”

Bellamy takes another moment to assess Miller, and what questions he might have. “I’m afraid Clarke has been dealing with most of that,” he finally answers. “She won’t even let me peek at her notes.”

Miller smiles, feeling profoundly grateful for his friend. “I’m aware,” he said wryly. “But I actually had to ask you for this.” He took a breath, feeling suddenly nervous. “Would you, maybe, be my best man?”

Bellamy gives a rare, full smile. He still looks tired, but. He looks less tired with his teeth showing. “I guess I did sort of get you two together,” he brags.

Miller only shrugs. “There is that,” he agrees. “Also you sort of saved my life once, so.”

Bellamy nods, handing Penelopea strange toy made of metal and what looks like a pocket watch—most likely put together by Jasper—when she loses interest in the hole-punch. “So what is it that best men _do_?” he asks.

“So does that mean you’ll take the job?” Miller teases.

“Of course I’ll take the job,” Bellamy waves a hand as if it’s obvious. Which, well, it sort of is. “But I still need to know what the job itself entails.”

Miller shrugs unhelpfully. “I think you’ll hold the rings, maybe? Help me with my tie on the big day. Maybe my veil, if I wear one. Mostly I think you just keep me from getting cold feet. And the bachelor’s party.”

“Bachelor’s party?” Bellamy asks, scooping Penelopeinto his lap. She immediately lunges for his hair, and he only winces a little. “What do you want to do?”

“I think we’re supposed to get drunk or something, but honestly I’d be happy with whatever you decide.”

“You want _me_ to decide?”

Miller grins. “Well, it _is_ sort of your job, now.”

 

“What should I do for Miller’s bachelor party?” Bellamy asks as soon as Clarke crawls into bed. She reminds him of a mole, burrowing blindly into his side for warmth. She likes to stick her cold little feet between his legs.

“I’m not sure,” she admits, voice muffled by his shirt, where her mouth is pressed against his sternum. His hand idly traces patterns along the skin of her bare back. “I thought I’d just have Jasper make a special batch of moonshine, like old times, and we could spend the night here making phallic sugar cookies and playing poker with your money.”

“Did you stay with me for my money?” Bellamy teases, pulling gently at her hair. Clarke pokes her head up to grin at him.

“Definitely.” She pauses. “But your hair’s really nice, too. Also, you’re really good at oral.”

“Speaking of which,” Bellamy waggles his eyebrows and she laughs as he slides down her body, suddenly gasping when he presses his tongue between her legs.

This goes on for a few moments; Clarke writhing and giving little moans and gasps, and Bellamy trying not to grin too smugly, until she abruptly says “Maybe you could just take him to a— _oh_ —to a strip bar.”

Bellamy pauses after a minute, somewhat late to process her words because _he’s a little preoccupied_ , and then he pulls back a few inches to stare up at her. She’s staring down at him, a little daringly, and the edges of her mouth are twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. Bellamy, in turn, tries not to feel insulted.

“ _That’s_ what you want to talk about right now?” he finally asks, raising a single brow.

Clarke raises one back and tries to hold in her smile, but fails. “What, you don’t?”

“Frankly, I’m a little preoccupied,” he says because, well.

Clarke waves for him to continue. “That’s alright,” she assures him. “I can multitask.”

Bellamy scoffs, definitely feeling a little insulted. He’d sort of hoped she’d be losing the strength in her limbs right about now. “You’re the most easily distracted person I know,” he argued, pointedly staring. She’s sort of proving his case.

Her grin turns lecherous. “Well then,” she purrs, readjusting so that she can grind against the stubble on his chin. He swallows a whimper. “Distract me,” she breathes.

 

Bellamy calls Murphy the next day. He answers the phone with a tired _What?_ But he always the answers the phone like that, so Bellamy chooses to ignore it.

“What should we do for Miller’s bachelor party?” Bellamy asks, straight to the point because he knows Murphy doesn’t appreciate small talk. To be honest, neither does he, or any of them for that matter. The only person he knows that genuinely enjoys meaningless conversation is Clarke. Maybe Wick.

“How should I know?” Murphy says, just as bluntly. “I’ve never been to a bachelor’s party.”

“None of us have,” Bellamy argues, and then hesitates. “Did Wick have a bachelor’s party?”

Murphy makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a snort and a chuckle. “Nothing about their marriage is normal,” he says fondly, “Why would their wedding have been any different?”

Bellamy sighs, already exhausted with the whole best man business, and it’s only his second day. “Clarke said we should just go to a strip bar,” he says, a little dejected. He’d hoped to come up with something a little more imaginative.

“I know a nice strip bar,” Murphy offers. “It’s great. Clean and professional. They have a special on Thursdays. I’m sure they could do some sort of theme night for us.”

“I don’t really know if that’s appropriate,” Bellamy says gently. “I mean, he _is_ getting married the next day. Do you know if it’s just us three, or is anyone else on Miller’s side?”

“You make it sound like a war,” Murphy chuckles. “The strip bar was just a suggestion; if you figure something else out, let me know. I think Lexa’s been forced onto our team, just to even things out. Raven’s going to spend the night between parties—you know how she is.”

Bellamy nods even though he can’t see him. “Well, thanks for trying,” he mutters lamely. Murphy snickers and hangs up.

Bellamy calls Lexa, who answers with a sighed _Yes?_ Which Bellamy also chooses to ignore because she always answers the phone like that.

“What should we do for Miller’s bachelor’s party?” Bellamy asks.

“ _Oh, hello, Lexa,_ ” Lexa answers. “ _Oh, hello, Bellamy. How nice to hear from you. I trust you and your offspring are well, since otherwise Clarke would have called me in a panic. What has made you pause your book-worming, child-rearing busy schedule to call on me?_ ”

Bellamy waits patiently for her to finish, before repeating himself. Lexa pauses for a second time, before saying “Murphy knows a nice strip club. There’s a Thursday special.”

Bellamy sighs.

 

Miller arrives at Lexa’s house sometime in the early afternoon. He doesn’t bother knocking, because none of them ever bother knocking, just to save time. He just strolls inside, and immediately comes across Monroe.

In the kitchen, stirring something in a pot on the stove. She’s wearing a faded red apron, a pair of thickly knitted socks, and nothing else.

Miller has seen several things he’d rather not have, including several people in various states of undress. He’s walked in on his parents before, but he still feels confident in placing the present image of Monroe at the top of that horrible list. She screams a little when she sees him, and grips the apron tightly. It’s terrible for everyone involved.

Lexa steps into the room seconds later, and amusedly takes in the scene—a mortified and very naked Monroe, and Miller red-faced with eyes pointedly focused on the floor. “I thought I said half-past,” Lexa muses.

“I’m a soldier,” Miller grinds out. “I like to be _punctual_.”

“ _Early_ and _on time_ are not the same thing,” Lexa declares. She pulls the measuring tape from her pocket. “You’re lucky only Monroe’s not wearing pants.”

“You’re the fucking _worst_ ,” Miller groans, as Monroe slinks away in search of clothes.

Lexa clicks her tongue, following Miller out into the dining room. “No one likes a groomzilla,” she chides. “Now, clothes off, arms out; let me make you beautiful.”

 

Monroe shoos him out the door when Monty shows up, because Clarke gave her strict orders to not let them see each other’s suits. (Actually, she gave strict orders to Lexa, but Lexa doesn’t care so it’s up to Monroe to enforce it.) It’s an outdated custom, and a little annoying, because Monty looks damn good in a suit and almost never wears one, so Miller’s a little bitter about giving up a chance to see that, but he decides to humor them. Monty’s more enthusiastic about the superstition than he’d anticipated, and it’s nice to see him get so worked up, giggling and giving Miller a sloppy kiss as he shoves him out the door.

He meets up with Clarke at the bakery, and Monty walks in an hour later. She has them taste different cheesecakes until they both feel nauseas—Miller likes the lemon and the orange-rum, while Monty prefers the classic and vanilla-cream, but they both like the dark chocolate best, and Clarke seems smug about it so she must have won another bet with Bellamy.

(Miller discovered early on that Clarke and Bellamy had started betting over everything from what color suit Miller chose, to the flowers in Monty’s bouquet, to the first song at their reception. He’d worry they had a gambling problem, if they ever gambled with anyone besides each other. And occasionally Jasper.)

The three spend the rest of the time sipping coffee and ginger tea, respectively, and chatting about the wedding without making any real decisions. Clarke, for once, is relaxed enough for that to happen, and her notebook is nowhere in sight.

“Aren’t you supposed to be pressuring us about the seating chart right now?” Miller wonders. Clarke shrugs, handing a customer his cinnamon cake.

“I’ve been told by a concerned party that I’ve maybe been a little hard on you, and should try letting you take things at your own pace,” Clarke says.

Miller smirks. “And by _concerned party_ , you mean Bellamy.” Clarke sticks her tongue at him. Monty laughs into his mug.

“Why,” Clarke glances up at him. “Did you want me to pressure you about something? Because I can totally do that. To be honest, the seating chart isn’t as pressing as the wedding invitations—what font should we use? Have you even picked a color scheme yet? How many people are you inviting, and do any of them live far away? I mean, O and Lincoln are obvious, but is there anyone else?”

“Your ability to let others set their own pace is astounding,” Miller remarks. Monty wisely keeps quiet. Clarke glowers, which she’s slowly growing better at. Miller would be amused, if her narrowed eyes weren’t always trained solely on him.

“We should actually work on those,” Monty finally breaks the quiet. Clarke turns to him with a soft smile, and Miller feels a pang of jealousy.

A small one. Practically not even there. But, well. He’s not _proud_.

“Any suggestions?” Clarke asks, and then she and Monty are on a roll. They work well together, springing ideas off each other until they have the details pinned and the designs sketched out. Simple, with a blue and white theme. Their names and the date and the town park’s address.

She has a whole different set of stationary for the invitations to their respective bachelor parties, which Miller finds endearing but unnecessary. He doesn’t say anything though.

“Are you going to do your own vows?” Clarke idly wonders, having finished the last of the invitations. They sit in neat, addressed stacks, waiting to be sent out.

Miller and Monty exchange a look of raised eyebrows. They haven’t discussed vows, just like they haven’t discussed their suits, or their guest list, or the songs for the reception. They haven’t discussed much about the wedding, because every time they do, one or both of them says something romantic, and everything dissolves into sex.

“I think so,” Monty says hesitantly, giving Miller the option to say no. He doesn’t, and Monty’s cheeks tinge pink.

Miller turns to Clarke conspiratorially, and says “Bet you twenty bucks that mine make Monty cry.”

Clarke grins and shakes his hand over the counter. “You’re on.”

 

“Okay so which one of you wants to walk down the aisle?” Clarke asks, still peering down at her notes, ticking off her to-do list. So far, she’s crossed out _flowers_ , _suits_ , _invitations_ , _guests_ , _cake_ , and put a question mark beside _song list_ , deciding to swing back to that.

She looks up with a sorry expression. “Or do neither of you want to? That’s okay too, we can—”

“Why can’t both of us walk?” wonders Miller. He has no doubts about Monty’s desire to march down to the sound of something with a lot of flute.

But, to be honest, Miller sort of wants to, too. Sort of. He could do without the song, though.

Clarke considers, tipping her head in thought. “Absolutely no reason,” she decides, scribbling something—probably a pair of excited stick figures, she seems to draw those a lot—down on her paper. “Okay, so do you want to walk together, or like, one at a time? Who goes first? Who do you both want to walk with? Do either of you want to be given away?”

Miller and Monty glance at each other and shrug. “I’ll go first,” Monty decides. “I don’t have to be given away, but maybe, I guess I could walk down with Jasper? You and Murphy could go down together, and then Miller and…” he trails off.

 “David,” Miller finishes. “Or, fuck. Mom’s gonna be pissed. Should we have a vote or something?”

Clarke shrugs. “It’s your wedding, if you want David to give you away, that’s fine. If you want Mary to do it, that’s fine too. You could have one on each side.”

“I could have them fight over me,” Miller muses.

Monty laughs, “How romantic.”

Clarke shrugs again, but she can’t hide her smile. “It’s your wedding,” she repeats. “We’re just along for the ride.”

“And the cake,” Miller adds.

“And the cake,” Clarke agrees.

“And the alcohol,” Monty grins.

“Definitely the alcohol,” Clarke grins back. The closer the actual wedding date approaches, the more relaxed she seems—which Miller thinks is sort of backwards, but he isn’t about to question it.

They have a plan. The wedding is in four days. The park has been reserved. They have a cake. They have fancy-stenciled invitations. They have suits.

Miller waits until he’s home to curl up in Monty’s arms and laugh at the strangeness of it all. He’s getting married. In four days.

And if he cries a little on Monty’s sleeve, well. It’s his wedding, so who cares.

 

O shows up with Lincoln in tow, waves hello to her brother and then snatches up her niece and whisks her away for the next three hours. O leaves gifts of intricate coins and cheap keychains in her wake, little trinkets and gifts from her travels. She leaves them strewn randomly and when someone finds one, she likes to say she’d left it there specifically for them, but no one can really be sure how often that’s true.

Clarke has holed herself up in the bakery, working on the dessert buffet for the wedding and, of course, the cake itself. She’d tried to explain the process of _building_ —because apparently wedding cakes are constructed like skyscrapers, rather than baked—the cake, but it’d gone over Monty’s head, and Clarke was getting flustered again, so she left. She’s closed the store for the day, and the day after, and has ordered everyone to stay clear so she can finish on time.

Clarke’s house, meanwhile, is being taken over by the group, because Clarke’s house always seems to be where they gravitate towards, whether or not she’s even there. Monroe’s in the kitchen again, fully clothed this time, making some sort of casserole and the smell is making Monty’s mouth water. O and Penelope are in parts unknown, doing unknown things. Lexa and Bellamy and Murphy are huddled over Bellamy’s desk, discussing what Monty knows must be Miller’s bachelor party, because none of the three are very adept at keeping secrets, and also because his bachelor party is really the only thing they all have in common right now.

Miller, though, is missing, or as missing as he can be while still being in the house. Monty isn’t necessarily worried, but he’s grown used to Miller’s _nearness_ , and now that he’s aware of it, he feels uncomfortable without him in sight.

Jasper finds him like that, standing against the wall, as if waiting for his body to give out so the wall can keep him upright. He has a drink in hand, but Monty isn’t sure if it’s alcoholic. Probably. He wonders where he got it. Wonders if he could find his own.

“Having second thoughts?” Jasper grins, to let him know it’s a joke, but Monty doesn’t answer.

Instead he says, “I’m getting _married_ ,” and Jasper smiles amusedly. “To _Miller_ ,” Monty tries not to throw up.

Jasper grins. “That seems to be the general idea, yes. Is this those wedding jitters I’ve read about? Should I get you drunk? Point out how stupidly in love with Miller you are? Make some really bad wedding puns? Get you drunk?”

“You already said that,” Monty points out.

“It needed to be said twice,” Jasper shrugs. “So should I?”

“I’m not at all drunk,” Monty pauses. “I could be a lot more drunk.”

Jasper whoops and shoves him a bottle that appeared out of seemingly nowhere. Monty has learned to never underestimate Jasper when it comes to booze.

He takes a quick swig and swallows a grimace. He’s definitely had worse, but the drink still tastes the way ammonia smells. “Where’d you get this?”

“Not ABC, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“God no; more like paint thinner from the garage.”

They spend a few moments silently sipping their paint-thinner in silence, as Monty tries to come to terms with his impending marriage, and Jasper lets him freak out in peace.

“It’s not a big deal,” Jasper eventually placates. “I mean, you guys were basically married already. Had a house together, you bought a bigger bed. You wear each other’s shirts sometimes. You know, marriage stuff. So. Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Monty snaps, and winces. His voice is breaking, and a little higher than usual. He’s definitely freaking out.

Jasper gives him a knowing look, but leaves it. “So I think I’ve pretty much got the track list for tomorrow,” he says instead.

Jasper is in charge of music at the reception. Miller and Monty had been a little hesitant to say yes, but they decided to let him have it. And anyway if it’s really terrible, they can just have Clarke stealthily cut the power.

“What’s the first song?” Monty asks, mostly just for something to say. The first song is what he’ll be dancing to with Miller. Right after they get married.

 _Shit_ , he’s getting _married_. Tomorrow. He’s trying _really_ hard not to freak out.

Where the fuck is Miller.

Jasper grins like he used to, when they were kids. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out, brother.”

Monty frowns because Jasper grinning like _that_ is never a good sign. That’s the grin he wore when he first read about distilling alcohol. That’s the grin he wore when he first built a smoke bomb. The one he wore when he set the microwave on fire in their first group home.

He looks around for Miller some more, but his fiancé is still missing, along with Murphy and Bellamy, which is probably not _terrible_. Probably. He figures he can take them both at once, if it comes down to that. Or at least he could get O to do it.

“What should I say in my vows?” he asks, turning back to Jasper. Jasper strokes his chin thoughtfully.

“Talk about how much ass you’d kick for him,” he decides. “You know, muscle-man style. War machining it out. Like, if you guys were separated by the apocalypse, you’d level cities to find him or something.”

“I don’t think I’m really the war machine type,” Monty muses. Jasper rolls his eyes.

“Anyone can be a war machine if they want it bad enough,” he argues.

“Regardless,” Monty shrugs, “I think he already knows that.”

Jasper shrugs back. “It’s still nice to hear.”

Monty eyes his brother for a moment. “You know I’d do that for you too, right?”

“I know.” Jasper grins. “I’m still not telling you the song.”

Eventually Monroe brings the casserole out—which in turn lures out the rest of the pack from their respective corners of the house. (Including Miller, though he doesn’t offer up where he’d been hiding, and Monty doesn’t bother to ask.) They all crowd around Clarke and Bellamy’s coffee table, sat on their knees and ankles, and pass around plates and bowls and cups of some strange yogurt-drink, which is the only thing that can make Monroe’s spices bearable.

Clarke comes home just before sunset, with hair escaping out of her bun and cream cheese frosting stuck to some of the ends. There’s a streak of it just below her lower lip, which Bellamy gladly licks off amidst much booing.

That night, just as Monty is finally drifting off to sleep, Miller mentions, “So I talked with O today.”

“ _That’s_ where you were all afternoon?” Monty asks. He’s pretty sure O isn’t the type of person to corner her friends’ soon-to-be-spouses for vague death threats or anything equally ridiculous, but. It _is_ O, so. One never knows.

Miller nods, thoughtfully. “She really loves you,” he finally says, which is not at all helpful.

“She loves you too,” Monty assures him, because she does—if she didn’t, they’d _know_ , and there would be no wedding to fret over.

Miller smiles down at him. “I know,” he says. “It’s just nice—I knew they were my family, of course I knew, _part of the pack_ and all that, but—it’s cool, hearing that sort of thing out loud.”

“She said that?” Monty asks, whispers really, because any louder and he just knows his voice is going to crack. His eyes are already stinging and _dammit_ , he’s always hated crying—it makes his nose burn and his cheeks puff up.

“Something like that,” Miller answers, which—again—isn’t any sort of explanation. But Monty doesn’t press the matter, just rolling over to press his face to the skin between Miller’s shoulder and neck.

 

The day before the wedding, Clarke and Bellamy show up at the house to whisk away their respective grooms. Clarke and Jasper make waffles with Monty in the kitchen, while Bellamy whisks Miller off to places unknown. Clarke is adamant that the couple can’t see each other again until the wedding ceremony itself—another outdated tradition, and completely absurd, but they humor her. Monty leaves Miller with a quick peck, and a soft smile, whispering _See you at the altar!_

Monty’s bachelor’s party is a quiet affair at the town’s only bar. He beats Jasper at darts eleven times before he quits, and then he beats Raven another three, though he’s sort of sure Raven’s just letting him win because it’s his party. Emori beats him twice in a row, which only makes him like her more. Clarke has made him a sheet cake, filled to the seams with cream cheese and decorated with the _Avengers_ , made entirely of frosting. It’s badass, and delicious, and Monty hugs her so hard she can’t breathe, and then spins her around for good measure.

Lexa is watching Penelope, but Mary drops by for a moment, and O and Lincoln stay for the whole night, although Jasper leaves halfway through to spend a few hours with Miller, out of _solidarity_.

“He’s my brother now, too,” he shrugs, and so Monty spins him around, too.

Monty drunk is a lot like Monty sober, in that he blushes frequently and all over, and smiles a lot, but he also becomes very affectionate in a childlike way, latching onto arms and draping himself around shoulders. He also compliments everyone, about everything, but mostly he likes to gush about Miller. It’s sweet and endearing, and also a little awkward when he starts to coo about Miller’s (admittedly very impressive) arms.

Monty drinks a little more than he probably should, and definitely more than usual, so when he finally stumbles home at the end of the night, he’s slung between Raven and Clarke. They look more amused than he’s used to seeing them—in fact, the whole group has seemed happier than usual, recently, and he’s drunk enough to take a moment to process that thought. He actually just stops and thinks about it, and then he stumbles his way up to Clarke.

“Are you happy?” he slurs.

He’s pretty sure Clarke is also a little drunk, but she’s sitting down so it’s hard to tell. He thinks she’s holding onto the table to keep herself upright. “Of course,” she slurs back. “You’re getting married! It’s great.”

Monty shakes his head too vigorously, and has to pause until the room stops spinning. “I mean,” he explains, “Normally. Are you happy?”

Clarke regards him for a moment. “Yes,” she decides. “I have Bellamy, and Penelope, and the bakery, and the group, and you.”

Monty raises a brow. “Why am I last on the list?”

“Technically you’re part of the group, so you’re second to last,” Clarke answers. “But if it makes you feel better, I didn’t list them in order of most important. The bakery is definitely above Bellamy. But Penelope is probably first, sorry.”

Monty decides he’d probably asked the wrong person, since of all of them, Clarke has always been the one most inclined towards actual happiness. He makes his way to Raven, who’s sitting at the bar. He slumps against the stool beside her, but can’t actually manage the coordination to hop up.

“Are _you_ happy?” he asks. Raven glances at him in amusement—again.

“Right now, or in general?”

Monty smiles, happy at the clarification. Raven _gets it_. “In general,” he says.

“Sometimes,” Raven answers. “And sometimes I want to take a knife to the nearest person, and rob a bank.”

Monty has always appreciated her honesty. “Are you happy about the wedding?” he wonders.

Raven smiles and lays a hand on Monty shoulder. “I am happy about the wedding,” she promises, “But mostly I’m happy for you and Miller, because I know _you’ll_ be happy.”

“Sometimes,” Monty specifies, because he’s pretty sure it’s impossible to be happy _all_ the time. Except for Clarke, but everyone knows she cheats. She’s got a baby, and babies make everything happier.

“Most of the time, for you,” Raven declares. And Monty tries to spin her like the others, but he throws up instead, and that’s when they decide to drag him home.

“Who the hell decided to pave these streets with cobblestones?” O demands miserably on the walk to Monty’s house. She’s wearing a special, foreign pair of boots with dangerous looking heels, thin enough to fall between the cracks in stone. She nearly topples every other step.

“The same people that made those boots,” Raven teases, “Because they knew how entertaining it’d be for the rest of us.”

O makes a flips her off, and she laughs, and the night is pleasantly warm, and Monty’s mouth tastes like vomit but he’s not even mad about it. Mostly, he’s just happy.

 

Bellamy ends up taking Miller to the strip club, along with Murphy and Lexa. _Original,_ Clarke had smirked when he’d told her—though even she’d seemed impressed when she’d actually stepped into the building to deliver Miller’s sheet cake; lemon meringue with buttercream frosting, shaped like an old Army tank. Murphy and Lexa were right—they did do a bachelor’s special, which mostly just involved a lot of easy chairs and confetti poppers. Honestly, it was almost tasteful. They served cheap champagne in clear plastic cups, and bowls of sliced fruits sat on all the tables.

Miller fluctuates breezily between the female and male dancers—of which there are a nearly equal amount—but he’s careful to keep a minimum of four feet between them and his chair.

“I just admire their skill,” he explains, but Bellamy only shrugs. Who is he to judge someone’s preference in half-naked dancers?

Bellamy, for his part, strikes up a conversation with the bartender, avoiding the lounge completely, only pausing to buy more drinks when they finish the first rounds. Murphy’s favorite dancer perches on his knee for most of the night, but neither of them seem at all coy about it. They continue looking straight ahead, faces impassive, voices steady—it’s an impressive feat, and so Bellamy sends them both an extra round. Jasper shows up half way through the evening, pays for a back massage, and then lays face-down on a long wooden table shoved in the corner, while a hefty-looking male dancer rubs his knuckles down his spine.

“You were right,” Jasper shouts, voice muffled by the table. It’s unclear who he’s talking to, but he continues. “This place _is_ amazing.”

The dancers all clap and smile, and the bartender gives him free drinks for the whole night. At one point he starts telling a few of the prettier ones about his and Monty’s misadventures, but he doesn’t seem to want to impress any of them; he’s just glad he has an audience.

Raven spends her time stuffing singles in the strippers’ underwear, and making Wick buy her lap dances while he just shakes his head fondly and takes lots of snapchats with his phone. He sends them all to her, with captions like _Dear God in heaven, pls let u remember this in the morning._

Miller becomes drunk, which isn’t exactly a feat as, out of the entire group, he has the lowest alcohol tolerance. Well, maybe Clarke does.

Miller drunk is a lot like Monty drunk. Bellamy decides the pair might not be as different as everyone thinks.

Clarke’s cake is a hit with everybody, as Bellamy knew it would be, and he sneaks the bartender three pieces so the rest of their rounds are free. At one point he mildly wishes his wife were there with him, but he doesn’t say—partly because Lexa and Raven would tease him for it mercilessly, and partly because tonight is Miller’s night and, again, he doesn’t want to ruin that for him by pathetically pining for his wife, currently two streets away.

One of Bellamy’s biggest and therefore safeguarded insecurities is that he will always adore, and need, Clarke far more than she will need or love him. He’s not sure why the thought makes him nervous—he _knows_ she isn’t going anywhere, and neither is he, and so really what is there to be scared about—but it does and he is, and he hates it. He wonders if all couples feel similar, but one look at Miller, dopily yapping about his fiancé to the room at large, convinces Bellamy otherwise.

He turns back to the bartender. “Do you have a phone?” The man nods and slides the whole thing down the bar, like a pint. Bellamy picks up the receiver and dials Monty and Miller’s number.

So he’s pathetic and he misses his wife. Sue him.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hello?” Her voice is thick with sleep, and he’d feel bad if she didn’t sound so adorable. Instead, he just smiles.

“Hey,” he says. “So, Miller’s basically telling his and Monty’s story like some sort of ancient love odyssey. Should we quit while we’re ahead?”

He can hear the smile in her words when she answers. “It sort of _is_ some sort of ancient love odyssey,” she muses. “Monty’s all tucked into bed.”

“Already?” Bellamy wonders. Weren’t Jasper and Monty supposed to be the booze aficionados? “And I thought Miller was a lightweight.”

“I think he’s just tired,” she admits. “These past few weeks have been stressful for him, no matter how much he tried to act like he didn’t care. He cares. A lot. He’ll be the first to cry, you know.”

Bellamy laughs, remembering their bet. “I’m pretty sure Miller’s crying right now,” he teases. “Prepare your pride for a serious hit. Also your wallet.”

She laughs, breathy and full, and _Christ_ , he wants to kiss her. She hesitates, debating her next words. And then she laughs again and says, “This is so stupid.”

“What?” He’s not sure if she means Miller and Monty, or their shitty tolerances, or the bet, or the wedding, or the universe in general.

“I miss you,” she whispers. “I’m going to see you in less than,” she pauses, probably to check the time. “Less than eight hours, and I miss you. I don’t want to sleep on Monty’s pull-out couch, I want to sleep in our bed and wake up every two hours to check on Penelope.”

“I miss you too,” Bellamy smiles, because he misses his wife, and she misses him back, so they can be pathetic together. “I’ll try not to gloat too much tomorrow.”

“I’ll definitely say _I told you so_ ,” she shoots back. “An obnoxious amount. There will be gloating.”

“Don’t you have someone’s life to meddle in?”

“Monty and Miller are my last clients, I think,” Clarke declares. “I’m retiring.”

“Oh good,” Bellamy answers. “That means we both get new hobbies, and have lots of sex, right?”

“We already have lots of sex,” Clarke laughs.

“But _retirement_ sex,” Bellamy insists. “It’s different, a whole new dimension on the sexual plane.”

“So does that mean no more kids?” she asks.

“Absolutely not. You promised me an armada, and I expect you to deliver.”

“ _You_ promised an armada. To my mother, not to me—I wasn’t even there!”

“I will not be held responsible for anything said under duress, while in the presence of your mother,” Bellamy grins. “But in any case, an armada made up of our fantastic genetics is still owed—if not to Abby, then to the world. We have _fantastic_ genetics, Clarke. We can’t keep it all to ourselves, don’t be selfish.”

“You’re impossible,” Clarke sighs. “But I love you. I’ll see you at the wedding.”

“I’ll be the one by the groom,” Bellamy reminds her. She hangs up on him, still laughing.

“I’m getting married!” Miller exclaims, followed by a chorus of cheers. “To the most _amazing_ war machine—” he pauses, drink in midair along its path to his mouth. “I mean, _husband_ ,” he smiles. Bellamy finishes his draft, closes out the tab, and collects the groom with help from Murphy.

“Time to go, Romeo,” Wick chirps good-naturedly, slinging an arm around Raven—she’s busy writing her email on a stripper’s arm in body glitter.

“No,” Miller argues, but he’s too limp to give much of a fight. Mostly he just drapes between them and frowns, as if confused by how he got there.

“Yes,” Bellamy declares. “Because if you still smell like rum by tomorrow morning, your war machine will kill us.”

“He won’t,” Miller promises. “He loves you.” His whole body goes slack, and they barely catch him. Bellamy and Murphy share a look of fond exasperation over his lolling head. “Besides,” he continues, eyes drooping lazily. “He’ll just get O to do it.”

 

The actual wedding goes by faster than anyone anticipated. Bellamy and Murphy spend their morning rousing a particularly scowly Miller, and helping him primp for his wedding. His suit is a pale shade of blue, and he wears a matching veil, along with a pair of opal cuff links from O. He borrows a silk handkerchief from Lexa, and even lets him put gel in his hair. He’s nervous, Bellamy can tell, but he’s still smiling the whole time.

Bellamy glimpses Clarke twice in the morning—once when she shows up, with a hungover Monty in tow; and once when she sneaks into Miller’s changing room to find Monty’s veil, which had accidentally been packed in with Miller’s.

Both times they nearly decide to go make out somewhere, but get called off by someone at the last second. It’s probably for the best, really. There’ll be time for making out, _after_ the wedding.

Penelopeis the perfect flower girl, having been trained dutifully by O. Bellamy watches his daughter from around the corner of the gazebo, outfitted with tulle and taffeta to form Miller’s makeshift changing room. There’s another one for Monty some yards away.

Their sliver of park has been quartered off by transplanted hydrangeas and maple saplings—Wells and Monroe and some of Monty’s coworkers had worked through the early morning, setting everything up. There’s an arbor for the grooms to stand under, and Wells had accidentally cracked a few of the top boards when moving it, so they’d covered the whole thing with ivy and hoped for the best.

Monty walks down first, on Jasper’s arm. He takes Monty’s bouquet, gives him a discrete fist bump, and steps off to the side.

Miller walks down next, with David. Monty winks at him from the altar.

Mary officiates, and she isn’t terrible. No one’s _really_ sure she’s reciting the right words, in the right order, but they sound close enough. In the end, Bellamy hands them the rings—one sterling silver, one thick iron—and then they say their vows.

Monty is first. “Jasper said I should explain all the things that I would protect you from—nuclear war, the zombie apocalypse, knife gangs, the Flu,” Monty pauses. “But I think we both know I’m not exactly _war machine_ material. But, I could be, I think. For you. And I think you already know that. Then he said I should tell you all the reasons why I love you, and want to marry you. But I think you know all that, too.” Here, he takes a breath, clearly trying to keep calm. Bellamy sends a meaningful glance to Clarke, but she’s looking straight at Monty, with tears in her eyes. “So instead, I’m just going to tell you the moment I first fell in love with you, and knew you were the one for me, because I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.

“We first met in university, when you tripped over my leg and fell in the chair beside me. You were awkward, and stand-offish, and hungover, and I fell in love with you. I took one look at you and just _knew_ —you had ruined me for anyone else. Which I’m fine with, because you’re the only one I need. You’re the only one I want. I love you, Nate.”

Clarke bursts into tears halfway through, which was to be expected. Monty’s vows could have just been _I love you, Nate_ , and Clarke still would have burst into tears.

Miller, for his part, is remarkably dry-eyed, but his face is split open by the width of his smile. His vow is one sentence; “I love you, Monty.” Monty then bursts into tears. Clarke is still crying too much to look smug.

There are more guests than Bellamy thought there would be, which makes sense since the only aspect of wedding planning he was part of was Miller’s bachelor’s party. Some of Miller’s fellow soldiers have shown up in their dress uniforms—Miller for his part has transferred his uniform stripes to his wedding suit. A lot of Monty’s more regular customers came too, along with neighboring business owners, and several more faces he doesn’t recognize.

The reception is clearly where most of the budget went—they’ve commandeered Bellamy and Clarke’s house, again, because they have the largest dining table. And yard, which is where they’ve set up the tent. It’s enormous, and the same exact shade of blue as the sky, though Bellamy isn’t sure they did that on purpose. The poles are strung up with the same ivy as the arbor, and there are a few more bushes than he remembers being in his yard. The long tables are all covered in brightly colored table cloths, and candlesticks so glittery they could have only been picked by O.

Dinner seems to be some sort of potluck, with a random collection of crockpots and tin pans, salads, curries, pastas and breads. Clarke’s dessert buffet—a marriage of cupcakes, coffee bars, cinnamon rolls, cannoli’s, fruit pies, brownies, ginger snaps and biscotti—is arranged at the end of the culinary armada, though that doesn’t seem to stop people from skipping right to it.

The cake, though, is what steals the show; it’s her masterpiece, obviously, with five tiers of perfect dark chocolate cream cheese, with ganache drizzling down the sides like a fountain. At the top sits a shotgun shell, with a sprig of baby’s breath wrapped around the metal.

Everyone is seated with towering plates and cups filled with either sweet tea or honeyed moonshine—Bellamy can’t be sure—when the speeches start.

The crowd hushes as David stands. He raises his glass first to Monty, with a tiny tip of his head, and then turns towards Miller. They lock eyes and just stare for a moment, before tears begin streaming down Miller’s cheeks. David gives probably the largest smile Bellamy has ever seen him wear, nods to his son, and downs his glass in one drink. Everyone toasts, and sips, and tries not to feel awkward.

Jasper follows. “Miller,” he begins, “You’ve been a part of the pack since basically we found you. But now you’re more than that—you’re my brother, and Clarke’s, Monroe’s, and Murphy’s, and kind of Bellamy’s since we adopted him too, but not Miller’s since that’d be gross. Point is, you were pack, but now you’re family.” He turns to Monty, who’s finally stopped crying. “And Monty, you’ve always been my brother—we’ve always been a package deal, and now Miller’s a part of that, and I couldn’t ask for a better man to share you with. Mazel-tov!”

He drinks, only a little more subtle than David, and sits as Monty begins sobbing in earnest. Miller presses a fond kiss to his new husband’s temple. Clarke raises her brows at Bellamy from across the table, and mouths _I win._

The first song Jasper plays is  _The Thong Song_ , and Jasper is grinning wildly at Monty, who’s grinning back, nodding to the beat, while Raven rolls her eyes at the table, and Clarke tips her head back and laughs so hard she can’t breathe.

Jasper changes the track only halfway through, to _Wanna Dance With Somebody_ by Bootstraps. Monty and Miller do something like a waltz, with Monty’s arms linked around Miller’s neck, and his hands solid on Monty’s lower back. Eventually it ends, and Jasper says into the microphone, “Alright, this one’s an open invitation—sort of like the bar.”

He launches immediately into a dance song with no words, and the guests pour onto the floor. Women have tossed their shawls and nice shoes, choosing to go barefoot along the grass. Clarke is among them, somehow worming her way to the center of the throng. She doesn’t dance, so much as jump around a lot with her arms and hair flying. She grabs Monty’s arms, and swings him around. She has Lexa dip her lowly in some swing dance move. She clasps hands with O as they twist their knees and ankles from side to side. She twirls around with Miller for a while, and then manages to foxtrot with Monroe, and they only almost trip over each other twice.

David and Mary, oddly, dance the most and the longest, pausing only to pour more champagne down their throats and bicker. Lincoln sits most of the time, watching fondly from the sidelines. Bellamy tries to discuss his sister with him, but gets pulled out to dance by his daughter, though he suspects O put her up to it.

Murphy and Emori dance for two songs, only a little awkwardly, and then Clarke steals him for a particularly jumpy song. She makes it through eight more, before wobbling over to collapse in the seat beside Bellamy. Her chest is heaving, which Bellamy stares at only a little blatantly, and her hair is tangled and sticking to the sweat on her forehead and neck. She grins sloppily up at him.

“I won the bet,” she teases, and then thinks. “Actually, I won _three_ bets.”

Bellamy tries not to grin and fails. “Ah, yes. Do you accept credit? Can I put it on my tab?”

Clarke shakes her head and laughs. “Cash only,” she declares. “I will also accept dances.”

Bellamy eyes her for a moment. “Three dances?” he asks.

“Plus interest,” she grins.

“I see,” Bellamy nods solemnly. He stands with a sigh, holding out a hand. “Shall we?”

Clarke nods, grabs his hand and he tugs her to her feet. “We shall.” They head out, to where their family is waiting.


End file.
